Dangerous Situations
by Tastytime
Summary: Mistakes, alcoholism and a certain disregard for authority, deliver Watari into the dangerous touch of the one man who might come close to breaking him. MurakiXWatari yaoi. Chapter 3 up!
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Vicious Lies

**Fandom:** Yami no Matsuei

**Rating:** PG-13 for now.

**Pairing:** Muraki/ Watari

**Fandom**: Yami no Matsuei

**Summary:** Mistakes, alcoholism and a certain disregard for authority, deliver Watari into the dangerous touch of the one man who might come close to breaking him.

**Authors Note**: This has been posted before under the name 'What's a Ribbon between Friends?' but due to unknown reasons my account was kicked off and so I've made a fair few revisions and reposted.

_Shine another glass, make the hours pass. Working every day in a cheap café…_

The barman shone another glass, and held it up to the light critically, before replacing it on the shelf. In front of him was the usual collection of sodden, dedicated drinkers, who were the only ones in here this late. Most of them were businessmen, come to drink deep, where no questions would be asked. Others were old men slumped in corners, watching the world go by with vacant eyes, nursing their drinks like their first born child.

There were a few exceptions and the barman liked to speculate on who these people could be, and what they were doing in his place. One was the quiet man with the feral looking eyes. Impeccable, dressed in a western suit, the drink he drank seemed to have no impact on his senses. He was odd, silver hair, and the pale skin. If he hadn't been such good business, he'd have been uneager to let him in. And the other man. The bar tender gazed thoughtfully into the polished bar before him. The other man was different. He drank as though his only lover was the bottle, and his only friend was the barman who served the drinks. Maybe he _was_ the guy's best friend, and though he'd met enough people in that situation they were usually slightly different. He came in here every night, lost looking as though he'd nowhere else to go. He was obviously a scientist, wearing a perpetual lab coat, with a dreamy expression that told you he was a million kilometres away from here- probably on another world. He shrugged. At the end of the day it wasn't his business. They came, they went. Some of them didn't come back. What was one blond scientist, more or less?

Watari stared at the glass, and took another sip. Cheap whisky. Nothing burns the back of the throat quicker, or works faster. He became absorbed in the amber colour, swirling round in the glass. That was the colour they called his eyes. Amber. Like the resin which coats trees at springtime and traps insects. It was appropriate really. After all he was up to the eyeballs in the stuff, every night. He drank because that was all that was left really. In harsh tasting foreign whisky, he could forget for just one more night. He was down a third of a bottle now. He'd buy the rest, take it home, and try and forget.

Those damn liqueur bottles on the shelf. Why are they those bright colours? Those unnatural colours, bringing back memories, he doesn't want to think of tonight. Crème de Menthe that brilliant forest green. Go away Hisoka. Just go. Tonight I don't want you in my head. That deep blue one on the right. Shove off Tatsumi. Go budget cut somewhere else. I've got enough to pay for the drink in my hand. I'm not thinking beyond the bottle anymore. Through the blurring in his vision, the bottle looks purple, and with nerveless hands he raises the glass. Don't look at me Tsuzuki. Don't look at me with your violet eyes, and smiling face, when inside you're screaming. You're too close for your own good. Insanity breeds insanity.

The glass was empty. Time for that next third. The barman's there before he can say a word. Maybe he won't go home yet. Maybe he'll sit here with his memories a little more.

"You know, you really shouldn't drink that much," a deep voice says to his right. Watari doesn't even glance round.

"If you're drunk push off, if you're sober then can it. I don't remember asking the world for its opinion on my drinking habits."

"I'm a doctor. I've seen you before now, and every night you come, you drink enough to fell a horse. It's not healthy."

"Shut the hell up, whoever you are. It's bad manners to talk to someone who doesn't want to talk to you." There was silence, but the man who claims to be a doctor doesn't move. He's a palpable presence, and Watari tires of something so unchanging. He moves to another seat by the bar. But this is even worse. In front of him are rows and rows of beautifully shone glasses, with a mirror behind them. His fractured image stares back at him, haunted eyes large in his thin face.

He finally looks away from the sight, and the first thing he sees is the annoying stranger, still regarding him with secret amusement. His first impression is _white, _a pure dazzling white that seems almost angelic at first glance. A sparkling white suit that looks new in it's perfectly creased intensity. Silver hair, tumbles locks against one side of the glasses that delicately perch on the strong nose. The eyes are almost hawk like, one a piercing grey that seems to bury it's gaze into your soul, the other hidden behind the loose hair. To Watari's short sighted eyes which can't see details at this distance, the impression is almost supernatural. The man's probably slightly taller than Watari himself, and his build not quite as slender, though bulky is not a word you would use to describe him. But he's not as interesting as the glass in his hand, and turning back to it, he ignores everything in that burning sensation down his throat. So he doesn't see the man take a seat next to him.

For his part Muraki was intrigued. The first time he'd entered this discreet drinking club, the slim blond with the hopeless eyes had been the only person that had sufficiently interested him enough, that he had returned time and time again to monitor this strange personage. He always appeared promptly at ten when he did appear, drank steadily, then more or less steadily depending on the amount of furniture he had to steady himself with, he would leave the room until the next night. Muraki wasn't sure exactly why he was so interested but his instinct had never failed him before, and if his instinct told him that this man was more than the dedicated alcoholic he appeared to be, then he wasn't going to ignore it. Tonight was the first night however that he had actually decided to approach the other man. The conversation had gone more or less as expected, short, sharp, and to the point as he had observed from the man's other brusque encounters with the human race.

As he took a seat beside the scientist- for such he appeared to be, he looked over at the barman who was currently engaged in arranging the liquor bottles on the shelf, and glanced back to the figure beside him.

There was something out of the common about him that was for certain. For once his charm hadn't worked. Muraki knew full well the charm could exert when he needed to- and the effect it could be used to achieve. But this was one drunkard who obviously was either too drunk to realise Muraki was trying to pick him up, or simply someone who had a strong natural resistance to charm- maybe a cynic. A smile touched his lips. He had plenty of time after all.

The golden eyes flickered round, and for the first time a hint of suspicion entered them. "Why are you following me?"

Muraki debated on the merits of an intentionally flirtatious reply, as against an unsuspicious reply. He decided on flirtatious. "You're too beautiful to be ignored."

The man's eyes rolled. "Whatever. Now get lost. I'm going." He nodded to the barman who slid the rest of the whiskey across the counter. There was about a third left in the bottle, and he tucked it carefully into his pocket, and slid the money across the bar top. Nodding he left, rather steadily than usual. He'd already forgotten the odd white figure.

He didn't notice that the loose ribbon that had secured his hair had fallen out, but someone else did notice, and picked up the ribbon that he'd let drop. Muraki eyed the length of shiny cloth. It was light, made of some silky material in a blue colour. He ran it through his fingers, his eyes speculative and knowing. Then he put it in his pocket, and turned to leave.

Watari stumbled through the streets. It was raining, and his hair ribbon had disappeared somewhere. He was cold, and the warmth in his stomach from the whiskey had disappeared. Wet tendrils of hair stuck to his face, and his shoes were soaking. His glasses had beaded up with rain, and he found his way by instinct alone. He got his key out, and let himself in. He'd rented a room specifically for nights like these, where going back to Meifu wasn't an option. It was cheap, and that reflected itself in the furnishings. There was a small bed, and a light bulb. The room was comparatively clean to some of the digs that Watari had stayed in before, but there was nothing else to recommend it. But then he didn't live there.

He stumbled with a sigh to the bed, and lay down without bothering to take off his clothes, though he carefully took out the bottle first of all. Sleep came easily that night, but his dreams were terrible. He woke up when the first glimpse of sun hit his face. His metabolism was such that his body had absorbed most of the alcohol by now, and thus the splitting head he should have had, was absent. He wasn't feeling great though, and judging by the time, he had ten minutes to get into work. With a sigh he materialized back into his apartment in Meifu. There wasn't enough time to take a shower.

He looked round him, and felt like crying. His apartment was clean, apart from a film of dust. The bed hadn't been slept in, the curtains hadn't been drawn. The carpet was unworn, and the water in the kettle was stagnant. On the window ledge drooped a withered plant. Insects crawled all over it, and it smelt of decay. It looked like a room that hadn't been used in months, though he supposed that, that was what it technically was. Rather than attempt to rectify this state, he simply pulled open the kitchen drawer and took out the small hip flask within. He poured what remained of the bottle into it, and tucked it into a capacious pocket.

This done he left for the office.

He wasn't as late as usual- only five minutes late, and he was able to slip into his laboratory without anyone realising he was here. The first thing that caught his eye apart from the three memos scattered on his desk, was his owl. 003 was sitting dejectedly in his inbox. He hurried over to determine what was wrong, but the instant she saw him, she fluttered off out of the lab, chirping sorrowfully. Watari slumped. It was ridiculous he knew to be depressed over an owl, but he'd thought that she'd have been rather nicer, when he felt as bad as this.

He opened the memos and repressed the urge to stick his tongue out at an imaginary Tatsumi. Tatsumi's note was short and curt.

_Watari,_

_I need to see you in my office at 11 am. Be prompt if you please._

_Tatsumi._

He tossed it aside. He might go if he had nothing else to do he supposed. Ripping open the next one, he sighed. It was from Tsuzuki asking if he was free for dinner tonight. Tsuzuki was so obvious sometimes. He already knew what Tsuzuki would say to him. Why are you behaving like this? Can I help? _No, _he said silently. _You can't help Tsuzuki. You can't make it all better. You're a cause._

He tore open the last memo which was a simple note acknowledging receipt of report on the effects of the new sedative being used, which had been developed by Watari. He threw it aside. He should work on it some more he supposed, but he couldn't be bothered anymore.

Eleven am came. Watari debated whether to turn up for the meeting. Then he decided he might as well. If he didn't it would just give Tatsumi another chance to yell, and possibly take even more privileges away. Didn't mean he had to hurry though did it?

Striding along the corridor, he finally became aware of what had been subconsciously irritating him all morning. His hair ribbon was missing. His hair had somehow tucked itself into his collar which was why he hadn't noticed it, but now it was loosening and flapping around his face. Peering at one strand, he realised it was in urgent need of a wash- and one hand feeling it, in need of a comb as well. Whatever.

He fell over a chair almost banging his head against the wall. As it was the only harm done was to his glasses- one lense was cracked. Biting back the inevitable swear words that tumbled to his lips, he looked up. From this angle Tsuzuki looked somewhat like Tatsumi, but maybe that was because he didn't have glasses on. Tsuzuki didn't offer him a hand up, so Watari was forced to struggle upright by himself. Once partially upright he started on his journey- that was until Tsuzuki grabbed hold of his sleeve, and forced Watari to turn around. Though Watari rebelled at this manhandling, he kept his eyes fixed on the floor. He wasn't going to look into Tsuzuki's eyes. He didn't want to read what he might find there- he didn't want to see disgust, pity, or any other of the delightful emotions that would be there. From the tone of Tsuzuki's voice, Watari could tell that this was going to be a 'pull-your-socks-up-and-play-the-game,' speech, rather than an 'I-know-what-you-are-going-through-is-there-anything-I-can-do-to-help-speech.' He tuned him out after the 'why didn't you return my memo' start.

The next thing he knew he was sitting on the floor again, clutching a stinging face. Tsuzuki had hit him- and not a light slap either but a closed fist blow that was _definitely _going to leave a bruise. But when he looked up it was his friend's face that was twisted in pain. "Don't you care Watari? Do I- do we all mean so little to you, that you don't even listen to us anymore?" He turned, and almost ran off down the corridor. Watari sighed wearily. He was twenty minutes late.

When he finally crawled into Tatsumi's office, he didn't need to be an empath to sense the danger. Right now if they'd all been weather conditions Tatsumi would have been a thunder cloud. He let his mind drift on that theme. He'd be a scattered cloud. Hisoka would be a storm cloud too probably. Tsuzuki would be light summer rain- depressing but refreshing. He then busied his mind wondering whether that was a rhyme or just assonance. Tatsumi's voice was a murmur in the background, and Watari not wanting to face another lecture, skipped onto another thought train leading on from that, concentrating on remembering half forgotten school learnt poems that flickered through his head. _Twas brillig and the slivy toves did gyle and gimble in the wabe, all mimsy were the borogroves, and the momeraths outgrabe… _He couldn't remember anymore unfortunately, and not much other poetry was springing to his mind, and he cast his eyes covertly around the room looking for inspiration. He could have sworn his reflection was waving at him in the highly polished window glass.

Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?

Skin white as milk, hair like…he paused, mink? mud? belgian chocolate? eyes like violets. Tsuzuki is the fairest of them all.

At that, his lips twitched and he began to giggle. Horrified he remembered where he was, and what an inappropriate thing it was to do. But it was just too funny- comparing Tsuzuki's hair to Belgian chocolate. Tatsumi's eyes were like ice, as he leaned forward. "I can see you are overwrought Watari, and I will make allowances for that. Go home. Shower. Don't come back here until you have a better attitude. I'm giving you until Hisoka arrives back. If you haven't shaped up by then, then the consequences will be far reaching. Now get out of my sight." He practically snarled the last words.

Watari obeyed Tatsumi's instructions. He went home and showered, watching in horror as the water turned grey. His hair was even worse, and even with conditioner, murder to comb out. He stuck with it, and once all the knots were out he dried it so it fell in it's normal soft mass over his shoulders, and smiled at his reflection. Despite what Tatsumi thought, a wash would change nothing. He'd go out again tonight. He blinked at his reflection. Not a very pretty sight really. But luckily he knew how to repair the worse ravages of sleeplessness- and of not eating. Light powder concealed dark shadows, Vaseline softened his lips, his lack of glasses made a change. Once he was done however the familiar lethargy returned, and he slumped onto the sofa. Cleaning could wait. Leaning over he picked a favourite book with which to while away the time. Deep in the adventures of Frodo and company, time passed in a flash, and from being twelve 'o' clock, the shadows deepened, until five came and went. Somewhat dazed, Watari replaced the book. Sometimes he could slip so deep into doing something- sometimes work, a book, a movie, that he would become unconscious to everything- time passing, the need for food, sleep, and most of all the need for alcohol. It had returned, a dull ache and with trembling hands he opened his hip flask, greedily swallowing the contents. Sinking back he let it burn through him, softening, dulling the pain- but only concealing it- no cure.

He stared at his bookshelf. Sometimes he just wanted to crawl in between the covers of a book, and leave this garbage tip of what passed for a life behind. Pity they hadn't invented a spell for that yet.

Soon it would be time to go. Another few hours.

He could barely wait.

_The lyric at the beginning is by Edith Piaf a French singer_

_I'd appreciate reviews, but I've written chapter 2 anyhow, though CC spurs me on quite tremendously. Thanks for reading._

_A.W._


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Vicious Lies

**Fandom:** Yami no Matsuei

**Rating:** PG-13 for now.

**Pairing:** Muraki/ Watari

**Fandom**: Yami no Matsuei

**Summary:** Mistakes, alcoholism and a certain disregard for authority, deliver Watari into the dangerous touch of the one man who might come close to breaking him.

**Authors Note**: This has been posted before under the name 'What's a Ribbon between Friends?' but due to unknown reasons my account was kicked off and so I've made a fair few revisions and reposted.

**Thank you very much to my first reviewers- SenayDalig, Dancing-Coconuts and Tsu-chan. It was very much appreciated!**

_Shine another glass, make the hours pass. Working every day in a cheap café…_

The bar was less busy than usual. On a Monday night, many of the men went home to wives they couldn't stand, to houses filled with fine china, silken curtains, and hatred. But his regulars were there. The scientist looked cleaner than usual, healthier in some way, that the barman couldn't measure. His greeting was acknowledged, and the bottle pushed over was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

Watari was feeling happier that was true. The subtle tension that had filled his limbs all day, was slowly dissipating in the warmth of that first sip, and his ravaged spirit in the confines of this bar, was slowly recovering from the day's delusions and illusions. For the first time in hours, his shoulders unhunched, and his fingers unclenched. But as he relaxed, the memories flooded back into his mind, and he wanted to gnash his teeth, and bite his lips until the blood ran down his chin, as though by doing that he could swallow the memories, the shame.

He wonders, not for the first time if he really is insane, and that he just hasn't got a memo about it yet.

_Watari,_

_I need to see you in my office at 11 am. Be prompt if you please._

_Tatsumi._

_Oh by the way, you're insane. _

He chuckles quietly to himself. He's not insane, he just wishes he was. Sometimes he wants to vomit, the would--be insanity out of him. Vomit until the sickly sweet poison in his body floods up and out through his mouth, in the form of honey-bitter words, so that'll they know that he doesn't want to do this, that he is forced by some voice inside him, that tells him just one more drink and you'll forget. His liver is never going to fail, he's never going to face the consequences of drink. He thinks he's like a child, who knows that everything can be put right by 'sorry' and a hug._ 'You're poisoning your liver child.' 'I'm sorry mommy.' 'That's all right. Everything's better_.'

He digs his fingers into his palms so hard they draw thin crescent shaped lines of beaded blood, that he wants to taste. Does it have the same tang as blood, this liquid which fills his veins? Or has it been drained way and replaced with a golden firey liquid that thrums through his veins, like a distiller's favourite dream? He watches them heal, vanishing scarring for a second then disappearing. He notices with disinterest that his nails need cutting, and that his thumbnail has been bitten- when he doesn't know, probably in his sleep, and he ponders for all of five seconds, about whether to bite the other nail, and even up his hands. He taps his fingers to the music in his head. He doesn't like pop music, or the westernized rock and roll deriatives, though he admires their classical composers. He rolls their names in his mouth, as though they are glace cherries on the cake of life. Mahler, Mendelssohn, Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, Vivaldi. So many, an endless procession of genius and death. He remembers the LP's from his lifetime, the scratchy sonatas that filled you with sound, and music until you just wanted to crack the vinyl, and silence that majesty, because it was all too much to bear.

The good old days. He smiles sourly. There was nothing good about them at all, and those who believed that they were better, were deluded fools. Irrelevancies fill his mind, as the whiskey starts to have its first effects; the warmth in his stomach, the burning of his throat. Tatsumi can play the piano, better than you'd have thought, with as much technical expertise as a master, and as much emotion as a block of wood. Less, in fact. Wood holds the warmth of the sun, absorbs it, releases it. Wood is an animate being made inanimate, and it holds emotion. Tatsumi plays then with the emotion of a shark, who seing a particulary juicy crochet, or quaver jumps on it, and savages it, until it is not worth having.

A man sits by his elbow, and glancing sidewards, he sees that white suit, and he vaguely remembers last night. He wishes the man would piss off and leave him alone. Alone in a bar, with an ugly woman opposite him. Typical. The pretty ones are probably whores, and Watari idly imagines selling himself, not for money but for the experience, and dismisses it with a small shudder. The thought makes him feel indefinably filthy, as though he actually has done that, in imagining it, and for the first time in a long time, he just wants to go home and curl up in his cold damp bed, and sleep the sleep of the dead. But it's warm here, and there is drink in front of him, and Watari resigns himself to consigning another night to oblivion.

Then that man taps him, and Watari turns ready to snap at him with verbal jaws, for being so rude when Watari hasn't even got half-drunk enough to tolerate him. But the man is holding out a ribbon, half clasped, half dangled, in elegant white fingers. Watari reaches for it, summoning up a smile from somewhere near his boots. "Thanks," he says, begrudging the words, and the other man merely smiles and raises his glass.

"You dropped it last night." The voice is long and liquid, almost mesmerizing, and the words drop like poisoned honey. Watari shrugs and smiles tightly, declining to answer. He's almost sure the other man is interested, but Watari's too tired and hopeless tonight, to bother finding out. "Do you want to get a drink of coffee?"

Watari debates saying yes. It means ending up sleeping with some man he doesn't know, and waking up in a strange bed. None of which matters really. And bloody hell, the man doesn't look like a pyschopath after all. For some strange reasons the word pyschopath is ringing bells in Watari's drink fuddled brain, but he ignores them. Looking up at the man, he shakes his head ruefully. "I've a bit more drinking to do yet," he says turning away.

The other man does not look annoyed, or even surprised. Watari can't see it, but a look of amusement, has crept across the handsome face. He doesn't even notice when the man in white leaves the bar.

The next morning he wakes up early, the sharp angle of the bottle jabbing his stomach. He's in his living room, and it's half past seven. He must have made it back last night after all then. He stretches, feeling bones crack and muscles extend. He feels different today, and his mouth tastes filthy. Stumbling to the bathroom sink, he spits and watches depressed as the saliva tinged with pink, moves down the drain. First signs of repair breaking down. He'll have to eat something soon, or it'll get worse. He imagines, the dry taste of bread, or the greasiness of bacon, and he leans over and retches, one hand instinctively going to hold his hair back, the other to steady himself. He feels weak and trembling, as though all the blood has drained from his head, and he sinks to the floor, dropping his head down. The nausea passes, but the weakness is slower to dissipiate. He can't face the empty house, but he's not supposed to be in work.

There's a knock at the door, and whoever it is barges in without waiting. It's Tsuzuki, and he's biting his lips in a familiar way. "I'm sorry about yesterday," he says without pre-amble, and he's waiting for a reply. Watari smiles warily, feeling his lips crack, and start to bleed. But the smile is like a switch, and Tsuzuki is in his usual smiling form instantly, childlike, and Watari wishes with a small pang, that he could keep Tsuzuki looking like that forever, so at least someone in this twisted world would be happy.

Somewhere in Tsuzuki's chatter, he heard the words, "Hisoka's staying for an extra week." Watari felt his body slump. The stern green eyed boy had been the final barrier between Watari and total despair, for the last few months. Watari had always drunk too much, ended up with the wrong person and been that little bit too close to being a rebel. But then the drinking had stepped up, the memory repression started. Hisoka had helped, dulling the pain, helping Watari unobtrusively to deal with the past, using his own natural empathy to cushion Watari through the day. But Hisoka had been gone for three weeks already, and he wasn't due back for another two now. Watari thought of Hisoka with affection. The young man would not have seemed like the ideal person to help Watari with his pain, and indeed he had been cold and standoffish even as he offered help. But Watari had found the courage to accept, and the fact that Hisoka wasn't willing to act as a friend would, and provide comfort, had made it easier to confide in him, as though he was a doctor or a priest. Some-one either paid or sworn to keep the secrets of the confessional.

Tsuzuki is looking around him the happiness faded. "No offence meant Watari, but this place is filthy."

Watari considers bridling at the comment, but doesn't bother. It is after all. He wonders briefly why Tsuzuki is here. Surely it's far too early for the other man to be up, and with a start he realises what it is. The other Shinigmai is lonely. A splash of guilt hits the dry parched plain of his conscience. Tsuzuki now as he looks at him carefully, looks lonely like a small animal who just wants to be reassured, and Watari pulls himself together with the biggest effort that he can make, and smiles in his old crazy way at Tsuzuki. "Let's go into work early shall we? Really give Tatsumi-san a heartattack."

Tsuzuki's answering smile, is like a flower blooming. He isn't fooled Watari knows by the craziness, but he will pretend to be. "Yes! And we'll pretend to be Hisoka, and we'll actually work."

"I'll just shower and change Tsuzuki-san. Do you want to wait or go on ahead?"

"I'll wait. It'll be nice to have some one to walk with." There is probably a rebukal implicit in that but Watari chooses to ignore it, if there is.

In the shower, the cold-hot needles of water, lance over and across his body, and he stretches to his full height, soaping quickly. Water puddles around his ankles, hair is clogging the pipe again. He's too lazy to unblock it- he merely steps out of the shower, shivering as cold air hits his skin. The towels are rough, and bring circulation tingling into his skin, and he dresses quickly, wishing he had skipped the shower. Tsuzuki is reading the book Watari had left out last night- The Lord of the Rings, and Watari has to repress a growl. He doesn't like people, not even Tsuzuki really, touching his things, but he tears the feeling away, and plasters a beam on his face. "Come on, let's go."

They walk slowly. The morning is spring like, perhaps even warmer than usual, and it would feel good to be alive, if there wasn't the memory of blood stained spit in a dirty bathroom basin, or a tinge of whisky craving in the back of his throat. Watari stiffens. He has left the hip flask at work, and though it is only half full, that's more than enough for some random passerby to recognise as whisky if they open it. And he knows that Tatsumi-san is such a meddler. His mind whirls frantically on how best to avoid the scene that he knows is going to come. He forces himself to relax. Maybe no-one has seen the flask, or bothered to look in side of it. How could he have forgotten?

_Right. Rather than chapters I'm doing chunks of story, which will end up as one long one-shot at the end of it, when I put them all together._

_So if you would like to read some more, just say :P_

_Lyric from the beginning is from Edith Piaf a French singer_

_A.W._


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Nothing is Forever

Rating: PG-13 for now.

Fandom: Yami no Matsuei

Pairing: Muraki x Watari, Watari x ?

Summary: When an depressed Watari falls victim to the clutches of the pyschopathic doctor, is it possible for him to escape?

_Thanks for reviews to: _

_Shine another glass, make the hours pass. Working every day in a cheap café…_

Once in work, he smiles at Tsuzuki, tells him he'll meet him in five minutes, and walks as fast as he dares to his lab, wilting in relief, when he realizes the flask has not been touched. He has broken out in a cold sweat, and he thinks to himself _never again_. He can't go on like this, every moment a tense beat, every second one of fear. He is pulled as tight as a bowstring, as though but a single shock would cause him to break. He sits in his laboratory and sinks to the floor, his arms folding around himself for comfort, even for support. The air tastes dusty, and it clings to the back of his throat as he breathes in deeply. The hairs on the backs of his arms are raised, and yet the air is not cold. Coldly detached, his scientist's mind merely notes that increased sensitivity to cold is one of the more severe symptoms of damage to his body. He tries to remember the last time he ate, but absurdly all he can remember is the chocolate pudding he shared with Tsuzuki about two weeks ago. He laughs. It's impossible. He must have eaten in the past two weeks surely. As he strains his memory though, nothing else emerges. Watari is not exactly an epicure,- he'll eat almost anything put in front of him except fish (which he'd always felt was odd, to be Japanese and yet hate fish so thoroughly,) but he does like his food.

He remembers Tsuzuki no doubt patiently waiting in the common room, and with leaden footsteps makes his way there, remembering to plaster a smile on his face, and a bounce in his step, in order to convince Tsuzuki that everything is okay, and that they really _don't _need to talk about his little problem. The scent of coffee, sharp and strong wafts its way over to him from the little percolator, and as though his body is taking instrutions from an unknown source, Watari walks that way, to be presented with a cup of coffee by a beaming Tsuzuki, and to have a piece of cinnamon cake shoved into his hand. He is in all truth rather touched by the gesture. Food was roughly equivalant to love in Tsuzuki-world, and given up with about the same ease as a religious girl her virginity. So for Tsuzuki to give up a piece- and a big piece at that of his precious dessert must surely mean something. He does try to eat it, he truly does, but the first bite causes him to choke and spray crumbs all over the place. While Tsuzuki is busy with glasses of water and pats on the back, Watari manages to smuggle the cake whole into his pocket, and crush his feelings of guilt. He'll buy Tsuzuki a wholecinnamon cake in recompense. He wonders if this proved he was normal after all. Surely an insane man wouldn't care about whether his friend's feelings would have been hurt by refusal, but surely only an insane man would refuse to eat such a succulant treat.

Back in his lab, he drops the pretence with a sigh of completion. Sitting in a chair, he surveyed his overflowing intray with an expression little short of disgust. The sticky taste of the bite he had put in his mouth of cake lingers, synthetically sweet and artifical, clinging to teeth and gums, distracting him as he tries to read the report in front of him. The words blur, swimming in front of his eyes, and he makes himself a deal. Just one sip. Just one sip of whisky to clear the cake away, and he'd start to work. He is painfully aware of how such promises and deals with himself usually work out, but he ignores the little voice in the back of his head, instead unscrewing the flask, and taking a little nip. He is about to raise it for a second swallow when he remembers where he is, and who he could be seen by. It is as effective a deflatant of his whisky lust, as the thought of greasy bacon had been for his appetite. He licks his lips, and resists an urge to smile at the warmth spreading through him, like a salacious secret that no-one else knows about. He focuses on the first report. _A Departmental-wide review into the effects and research purposes of the common spiritual ectoplasmic matrix when applied to unsanctified spirits. _His eye is caught by the word spirits. Idly he flicks through the pages, noting the precise applications, and clear purposeful dialogue. He admires the working style, and wonders who wrote it. He looks at the cover, and is struck with utter surprise. The neat font states that one Yutaka Watari authored the production. Beside it is a list of his qualifications. He can't help but smile a little proudly though he can't remember actually writing it. Well before he started jumping to conclusions like fairy godmothers, he'd do better to check his logbook, where in code he wrote short details of every piece of work he finished. Sure enough, two months ago, his neat precise handwriting stated that he had finished work on just such a booklet. He'd even been paid for it, which had been pleasant considering that for the amount of jobs he did in his departmental capacity, he got a suprisingly meagre salary. Granted living accommodation was provided, and it wasn't like the amount of the food you had to eat to keep functioning was large, but he felt they could be rather more generous.

He shuffled through the rest of the paperwork, making short notes here and there, even disposing of some of it. At the end of two hours, he felt as though he had been oddly productive, and was in fact rather proud of himself. It had been some time since he had been able to concentrate on his work, and he wondered if he dared hope that he was improving, that there was light. When he starts coughing though he doubts it. It racks his slender body, which has never been the strongest, and which deprived of food for such a while is actively weak. He knows without even looking that the hand he has raised to his mouth will be flecked with droplets of blood, and he merely wipes it on the old labcoat he is wearing. Hygiene has never been one of his chief traits, but then it's not like anyone could catch anything from his blood anyway. Hundred percent completely sterile. He should know, he did the research. The inside of his throat feels raw and swollen, almost analogous if such a thing were possible, with the human throat infection. At a knock on the door, he straightens hastily, and brushes his sleeve across his face to take care of any stray traces. The last person he expected to see was there. "Ah, Chief Konoe," he said brightly.

The chief entered and put an envelope down on the desk. "I was passing, and thought I'd drop this in." He paused and looked at Watari shrewdly. "Are you well?" he asked bluntly.

Watari can feel his bones when he crosses his arms across his chest. They dig in painfully when he folds them hard. His heart beats like an out of control drum, faintly irregular, but then its not like its necessary for the dead to have a heartbeat. He can taste copper in his mouth, and faint traces of alcohol, and even fainter traces of stomach acid. He smiles and nods brightly. "Of course Chief. Just a bit under the weather." Neither of them need to point out the weather never changes in Meifu. The look the older man gives him is a strange mix of annoyance and concern, but he leaves with no more intervention. Watari decides that the best thing he can do right now is brush his teeth. It doesn't take him long to find a toothbrush in the general melee that is his laboratory, but the toothpaste is rather harder to find. Small things do this to him now. The most minor things catch and hold his attention, indeed become the penulitmate purpose of his life. Usually it's his next drink, but now all he can think about is toothpaste. He must have it. If he doesn't... His mind doesn't fill in the blanks for these sort of questions, usually just a sense of impending doom is left to spur him on. He grows panicky over it, hands clutch at the air impotently, Where on earth can he find some?

He leaves the laboratory, and checks the bathrooms, but all they yield is indigestion tablets and sanitary pads- possibly two of the most useless articles in the world for a Shinigami rest-room to possesss. His saviour comes in the form of a small owl swooping through the air bearing a tube of toothpaste. He thanks it fast, not even stopping to enquire from where it was retrieved, nor how it is known that he wanted it. He merely dashes to the bathroom, and begins to brush his teeth. He has to brush carefully or he'll harm the gums. Granted, they will grow back, but with his current state, it'll be painful, and take some time. After that is done, work has receded from his world view, as had that hope of a possible recovery. Tsuzuki has appeared as though from nowhere, and is standing at his elbow. "Are you all right?" he asks anxiously. Watari has to lie.

"Yes. I just felt a little faint." He feels foolish clutching a toothbrush and toothpaste, and what had seemed so essential only moments before, were now worthless in his eyes. He attempts a smile, and perhaps he is a better actor than he ever thought, because Tsuzuki makes no demure. Perhaps not an Oscar winning performance, but certainly worthy of a minor gong at the Television Awards ceremony. He leans back with a sigh, and that reminds him of something. "Tsuzuki-san, I am sorry to ask this if it troubles you," he begins with all necessary politeness. "I was wondering how things are going with you and Kurosaki-kun." Well he's known as a gossip so surely he can ask?

There is a peculiar light in Tsuzuki's eyes for a moment, almost one of pure joyful excitement, before it is veiled. "I love him," he said simply. "But we agreed some time ago, that it is simply not the right sort of love to carry into a relationship. Hisoka is my partner, and..." he paused for a second. "It's like with Tatsumi-san. I have a tendancy to have a crush on people, mostly because I don't ever think they will ever reciprocate, though I am lucky in that I form deeper relationships with those whom I like, like that, even if not romantic. I love Hisoka, in not quite the same way as a brother, but certainly closer to that than romance." He walked a little closer to Watari. "Hisoka cleared a matter up for me as to who I do like though," he added. There was a sudden tension in the air, that even Watari could not fail to notice. For a moment, Tsuzuki leaned closer, looking searchingly at Watari, but apparantly not finding what he looked for, because he leaned away, and the tension in the air was released. "But that will have to remain a secret for another day," he said gaily.

Watari wrinkled his nose and smiled. "As long as it isn't on Terazuma-san, you can crush on whom you like."

"I don't think this is a crush Watari-san. And why the restriction on Terazuma-san? Do you want him for yourself?" Tsuzuki jested.

Watari's delicate eyebrows shot up. "Now I pray you are joking. Touch him? I was merely thinking of your much battered heart, and the cruel refusal he will be sure to give you." He mimicked Terazuma-san to perfection. "Get away from me! Aaah!"

This elicited a smile from Tsuzuki. "Well I hope that the person I'm thinking of will be more receptive," he said gaily. "Now I really must go. Tatsumi-san wants to lecture me on money again. The third time this week," he lamented, as he left.

Watari looked in the mirror, and wondered what on earth that had been about. He peered at his reflection in the mirror. It didn't seem to know either. In fact it shrugged at him, which was not entirely out of the ordinary for his reflection. Well it was certainly a new achievement for him. For what had been all of six minutes, he had held a normal conversation- indeed managed to actively participate and understand what was transpiring on at least the oral level. He hadn't drifted off or stopped listening. He'd even cracked a rather weak joke. Granted it had taken a lot of effort, but at least it proved it could be done. He would have liked to have known what was on Tsuzuki's mind though- the other man had seemed so serious at one point, and even in the depths of his own depression, Watari retained concern for the other man.

So it was at the bar that evening that Watari manifested the abnormal profile of a fairly amiable drunk, instead of the hostile combative stance he usually assumed, when he had consumed too much alcohol, a fact that was not un-noticed by the familiar white figure who occasinally frequented the club. Indeed he was at that stage of drunkeness that when Muraki renewed his offer to go get a coffee, he accepted. Maybe that was all he needed to feel more human, the touch of another, the warmth of a body beside his own for however brief a time. The impersonal coffee shop did nothing to dampen this feeling, even the coffee was not enough to bring him to his senses. These days it seemed, madness ran like a poison through Watari's body, madness and that recklesness he had always had in his character. When he concentrated on something be it as meagre as a tube of toothpaste, or as strange as sleeping with a stranger, nothing could deter him, it filled his mind, until when fulfilled its importance dimished and shrank.

Muraki for his part was somewhat amused at the change that had occurred in one night. Such an erratic, headstrong man. Unpredictable was one word that sprung to mind, and disturbed was another. Already this man was spiralled, a maelstrom of broken glass and fire, cutting himself to shreds, even as he blazed. Interesting, beautiful and potentially worth watching. Something bothered him though about the body of the man sitting next to him. Not merely its slenderness as though it could be broken if held too hard, but something un-natural. It plagued his mind, darting in his remembrances of others, until he finally caught hold of what it was. Strength. This body, weak and thin though it was at the moment (and he surely recalled it being sturdier than this,) gave an aura of indefinable strength off. Not unlike that of all those Angels of Death with whom he had encounter so far. Indeed, now he thought on it, exactly the same. He shook with silent laughter for a moment then was still. The Gods indeed. In all the entire world, of every bar in all the world, he had to walk into the one which held a mentally unstable Shinigami. His luck or his intuition, had truly surpassed itself this time. And the irony was of course, that he hadn't even noticed. Had thought for those months that he had kept a casual eye on the doings of the blond stranger, that he was human. Just another weak mote. This deserved something special, something he could not devise in one night, something to be savoured and enjoyed like the finest and rarest of wines. Or perhaps even this once, he would travel the game as it played out, with no particular destination in mind, but that of his ultimate satisfaction in whatever way possible.

_A couple of notes about this chapter. (1) I don't think Tsuzuki could possibly have been more unsubtle in his hinting if he'd tried. I personally prefer Tsuzuki to be with Hisoka myself, but it seemed fiting to have him at least dropping hints. (2) About Muraki not noticing Watari is a Shinigami. I would assume that unless you came into close contact and were paying attention, even Muraki would find it hard to spot a Shinigami who he did not know at all in a crowd._

_Reviews very much appreciated_


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